Miracle
by JohnWarnerSmith
Summary: If someone's rose wilts while in the gallery, does he/she die? Or does something more... inexplicable... happen? Time has no meaning in the gallery, after all... After his "death", Garry wakes up to very, very familiar surroundings... Takes place during what is assumed to be the Forgotten Portrait ending, although the story is written from Garry's POV
1. Chapter 1

**The time-travel/doing-it-over again genre of story seems to always exist in any category of fanfiction I come across, and really, I can see why. I mean, who wouldn't jump at a chance to right the wrongs of the past and correct long-committed mistakes? It's a sheer fact that life never turns out perfectly and that no person has existed to date who hasn't committed at least one wrong. The same holds true for fictional worlds, for these are created by humans, for humans, and thus they hold the same flaws that the real world in which humans live does. (Anything else tends to fall into Mary Sue category, which isn't worth mentioning anyways.)**

**This being the case, I was surprised to find that there was an almost nonexistent quantity of Ib time-travel stories out there—because really, no matter which ending you end up with, there's always something that went wrong, whether it was Garry dying or Mary getting burned up or Ib getting trapped in the Fabricated World forever. With this in mind, it seems like Ib would be a great setting for a time-travel piece, just so that the whole ordeal can be done again, and this time, done _right_. So why the deficit, then?**

**I'm afraid I personally have no idea, but that doesn't change my belief that, if done right, a time-travel variant of Ib's story has very high potential—especially if (despite all efforts to the contrary) things don't end up any better, or even actually somehow end up _worse_ than before. After all, time isn't something to be taken lightly. And so… what would happen?**

**This story grew out of my attempt to find an answer to that question. It uses the ending of _Forgotten Portrait_ as a base, and the time-traveler in question shall be (surprisingly) Garry. How, you ask? Didn't he die in the ending of _Forgotten Portrait_? Well, keep reading, and all shall be revealed… (By the way, if you want to get the full effect, I recommend actually paying attention to the details of the first few paragraphs about Guertena, and not just skimming it as I tend to do when reading a story. Jus' sayin'.)**

* * *

**(insert obligatory disclaimer here)**

* * *

Chapter One

"_It's said that spirits dwell in objects into which people put their feelings. I've always thought that, if that's true, then the same must be true of artwork. So today, I shall immerse myself in work, so as to impart my own spirit into my creations."_ -Weiss Guertena

The human soul is a curious thing. There is still fierce debate as to whether or not it even exists, but one thing remains certain: If the soul is real, then it must be a nebulous, ethereal thing—easily missed and easy to destroy altogether. How else could there be so little evidence for its existence, after all?

There are those who claim to be able to communicate with the spirits of the beyond. Most, if not all, are beyond a doubt, frauds. If it were true, then everyone would believe in an immortal soul existing after death, and as discussed above, not many do.

Of course, Weiss Guertena was one of the few who _did_ believe in the soul, and what's more, he believed that it could be accessed, shaped and transformed by human emotions and feelings. Being an artist, he thought that, if the soul could be brought out into the open by intense feeling, then of course anything on which a human worked with passion should hold some semblance of that spirit—and for him, that "anything" _had_ to be art—the one thing for which he held a passion above all else.

But for Guertena's theory to be proven true, it had to be tried first.

And try it he did. The results were unclear, although Guertena himself believed with an intense, almost religious fervor that he had indeed succeeded. Nevertheless, almost no self-respecting art historian today believes his spiel, although most will be quite willing to admit that Guertena's art does hold a strange, life-like semblance which does not seem to dwell in the art of other greats, such as Michelangelo, da Vinci, etc.

But what if it were true?

* * *

One of Guertena's later sculptures, _Embodiment of Spirit_, is quite telling about the late artist's beliefs. It takes the form of a large, beautiful red rose with thorns covering its stem. Guertena himself wrote about the piece: "Beautiful at a glance, but if you get too close, it will induce pain. It can only blossom in wholesome bodies." From this it is clear that Guertena believed that the soul bore some resemblance to a flower, more specifically, that of a rose; however, his own musings regarding the sculpture has led many experts to believe that he thought the soul to be thorny at its core, "once you get to close", perhaps symbolizing the faults inherent in any person.

If that is the case, then perhaps it may shed some light on Guertena's rather ambiguous spirituality; there has been much debate over whether the man was religious or indeed even believed in an afterlife. The entries within Guertena's diary and several of his works, including _Embodiment of Spirit_, imply that he did, although his beliefs do not appear to have conformed to any official religious doctrine of the artist's day.

One particular work to support this theory is Guertena's last painting, simply entitled, _Mary_, painted during the last few years of the man's life; Guertena had fallen ill with a then incurable disease, and it was only when it became clear that he would die that he began work on his final painting. There has been much conjecture as to the purpose of this painting; as with most of his other works, the girl depicted in the art does not appear to be based on any real person; however, the girl appears to be rather young, on the order of ten or so years, which is a major deviation from Guertena's usual works, most of which feature either non-human subjects or adults. Because of this, some believe that Guertena intended the girl to be a depiction of what he believed to be his own ideal daughter.

Throughout the majority of his lifetime, Guertena's was plagued by the condition known as sterility, causing him to be unable to bear children; in addition, the late artist showed little interest in marriage or in women in general, and it was these two factors that caused him to never bear a child. Nevertheless, many of Guertena's journal entries strongly imply that he desired a daughter, and _Mary_ may have been painted as a result of this wish by the man when it became clear that he was close to death. This may imply that even though Guertena was unable to conceive a real child, he believed that he could give life to his painting and perhaps birth a child that way. This theory is augmented by the fact that diary entries from the young Guertena strongly suggest that he wanted to have a daughter named Mary.

Because of Guertena's illness when painting _Mary_, his brush strokes when composing the work were rather unsteady and haphazard and generally not up to the artist's usual standards when creating a work; this has caused many historians to dismiss the work as inferior. However, Guertena's imprecise stroke-work has caused several ambiguities in the painting, the most prominent of which is the fact that the girl appears to be holding a greyish-blue object in her right hand; most people inspecting the painting have reported a strong impression of the object being a palette knife, despite the fact that the supposed "knife" appears in the painting as little more than a grey blur. In fact, the blur is much more likely to have been caused by Guertena's unsteady brushwork, perhaps accidentally combining the blue from the background with the white of the girl's sleeve, creating the greyish color. In spite of this, however, nearly anyone who has viewed the painting apparently receives a strong impression of the stroke as being a palette knife.

Given this discrepancy, this lends some credence to the theory that Guertena may have imbued his works with his own spirit, in the process causing viewer's to interpret his works the way that he originally intended, rather than as they actually appear. This effect is also apparent to a lesser extent with some of his other works, including _The Lady in Red_ as well as _Jugglin__g_, both of which possess slightly ambiguous elements which are nevertheless perceived almost flawlessly by most viewers. However, if this is true, it raises the question of why Guertena intended his daughter to possess a knife, a question which has no clear answer.

Despite the mystery surrounding much of Guertena's life and his work, however, some digging by historians has unearthed this much: Guertena almost certainly believed in a spirit, which he depicted in his work as a rose, and he also believed that his paintings had received part of his spirit when he worked on them. Whether this is true is highly questionable, but it is true that much of Guertena's work does hold a slightly surreal quality which cannot be easily replicated; interestingly enough, photos of Guertena's paintings as well as stroke-by-stroke replicas do not possess the original effect. One study showed that 93% of viewers interpreted the greyish-blue stroke in the original _Mary_ as a palette knife; however, only 28% of corresponding viewers looking at a digitized of the painting though the same, implying that there is indeed something separating Guertena's work from cheap replications. Due to this, almost no frauds are attempted of Guertena's work, as any past attempts at deception have always failed due to some sort of "intuition" on the part of the would-be buyer.

_Mary_ is widely considered one of Guertena's most mysterious paintings; however, regarded as equally confusing is another one of his works, titled _Forgotten Portrait_. The origins of the painting are unclear and shrouded in mystery; despite numerous attempts to trace the origins of the portrait, there is no clear indication as to when it was painted or even how it came into being; indeed, there is even some speculation regarding whether the painting even belongs to Guertena, the only indication that it does being the style and the similar ambiguities.

Equally intriguing is the content of the work. The painting depicts a slumped over man with light lavender hair punctuated by thin streaks of black near the center of the whorl. What is interesting about this is that Guertena lived in a period where hair was styled nearly constantly, when messy hair was considered a sign of lower class and un-education. Indeed, much attention has been drawn to the fact that the hairstyle of the man appears almost _modern_, and his clothes display a similar incongruency: The man wears what appears to be a yellowish-white T-shirt under a frayed blue jacket, both of which are clearly modern in style; it is unknown what Guertena used as a reference for this painting.

Our story begins with this painting, _The Forgotten Portrait_…

* * *

During his last moments, Garry wondered idly what would happen after death. He had never considered himself a very religious person, preferring instead to muse about things more immediately relevant to his life at hand. After all, not many sane people liked to wonder about death, and although Garry found his thoughts occasionally straying to the topic of what would happen after he died, he never really thought of a definitive answer. After all, he'd never thought he'd be finding out anytime soon.

And yet, as his chest was wracked with yet another spurt of pain, as Mary's cheerful and yet simultaneously _chilling_ voice echoed back to him: "Loves me… loves me not…", Garry found himself wondering what would happen, and hoping, desperately, that there _was_ an afterlife.

Because although he didn't regret his trade for Ib's rose for a second, he would have been lying hugely if he said that he was fine with dying—because he wasn't. It was simple: Garry didn't want to die.

But it was more than that: It wasn't that Garry didn't want to die, it was that he didn't want to stop existing. He sometimes wondered, like other people, what it was like when you slept. You didn't remember what happened in your sleep unless you were dreaming, and when you weren't, it was just a blank emptiness in your memory. Sleep couldn't even be described as black, or white, or in terms of hours or seconds, because you simply _didn't remember_ what happened. Sleep was quite simply sheer oblivion—unconsciousness.

And although Garry was as fine with sleep as the next person, he really didn't enjoy the thought of being unconscious—his very personality—his soul itself—ceasing to exist for all eternity. Garry didn't really believe in an afterlife. He didn't consider himself very religious. And one thing was for certain: He didn't want to die.

But he was willing to undergo death for Ib, partly because she was so much younger than he was, and partly because he had grown to care for her over the course of their ordeal, but mostly because Garry couldn't bear the thought of handing over the girl's rose to a psychopath. Only a monster would do something like that, and Garry wasn't a monster. So Garry was willing to brave death in order that Ib could be saved, because that was just the kind of person he was.

But that didn't mean he had to enjoy it.

_Loves me…_

Another burst of pain, a gasp.

_Loves me not…_

Garry coughed, blood spurting out of his mouth. Dredging up energy from his deepest wells that he didn't even know he had, he raised a hand and wiped the red fluid away. If Ib came back—and she would, because she was too innocent to know that he had died, and would try to wake him—he didn't want her last sight of him to be covered with blood.

_Loves me…_

More blood.

_Loves me not…_

Garry wondered, idly, how much longer it would be before his consciousness gave out and he gave in to the welcoming grasp of sleep, and eventually, death.

_Loves me…_

As another tremor racked his body, Garry thought of the real world, of what he was leaving behind for a nine-year-old girl he barely even knew—and he came to this conclusion: Whatever it was he was leaving behind, it would be far worse if Ib was killed. He lived by himself, he wasn't on good terms with his family, and he was far from stable financially. Really, he could barely dredge up the funds to attend college right now, and it wasn't like he was going to a great school or anything… he doubted that he would even be able to get a decent job with his credentials.

In the end, compared with the life of an innocent nine-year-old child, Garry's sacrifice was almost nothing.

_Loves me!_

Mary's voice rang out one last time, filled with childish enthusiasm, and Garry finally lost consciousness, slipping gratefully into unconsciousness, a place within the confines of his mind where—for the first time in a long time—there was no pain.

And then—darkness.

* * *

**A rather short and depressing first chapter, I know, but don't worry: It'll get better. After all, I didn't write this story just to depress the hell out of myself (and my readers); the game does a good enough job of that already without my help. And as for the length… I'll admit that this chapter is not really up to my usual standards, length-wise, but seeing as its meant more as a sort of prologue, I think it's appropriate to end with Garry's "death". Rest assured; the following chapters will get longer.**

**Not really much else to say, other than if you enjoyed, drop a review, please. I'm not really looking forward to any flames, mind you, but if you do, not really much I can do about it, other than report you—and I'm too much of a laid-back person to go to that much effort just for a simple flame, really, so if you wanna flame—go for it, I guess. I'll probably just ignore you if you do, though, so yeah—constructive criticism or no, at least it adds to my review count, right?**

**Anyways, that's all for this chapter, so… see you next chapter, I guess! But don't expect something anytime soon; I'm known for being a huge procrastinator, so the average expected wait time will probably depend on my enthusiasm for the story—but I swear, I will not drop the story, and that's a promise. And we all know how seriously Ib and Mary take promises…**

**And finally, that really is all I have to say. See you next chapter,**

**JohnWarnerSmith (in case you're really stupid and also didn't bother to visit my profile, _no_ that is not my real name you dummy)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Well, now, I'm back****. ****Missed me yet? ****I'd like to imagine some of you did, ****but given the number of reviews****… ****I doubt****it. ****I won't post the next chapter until I get at least five reviews, got that?**** …Just kidding. I've always been annoyed by those petty authors who think that reviews mean everything and ****go so far as to refuse to post the next chapter if they don't get (insert random number here) ****reviews. ****Honestly, whenever I come across an author like that, ****my reaction is always the same: "****And people will care about this because? ****Geez, defl****ate your own ego a bit ****and get better at writing if you want more reviews." ****I wonder what that says about my own writing skills, though...**

**Anyways, not really much to say here, other than ****have you figured out the format of this story yet? ****Most chapters will have a quote from Guertena and then a section about his works near the beginning, ****which may or may not include other quotes,****followed by a chapter from the actual story. ****(I say chapter in the loosest sense of the word; really, the whole thing is the chapter, but the Guertena part is more just to provide background information and hopefully enrich the experience.)**

**One more thing. After searching far and wide for a suitable quote from Guertena for this chapter, I came to this conclusion: Although Ib is awesome, it doesn't really have too much background—including quotes from the creator of the gallery. Oh, sure, Guertena had one or two more quotes, but really, I didn't think any of them were appropriate. If any of you guys would be so kind as to look for more quotes and PM me/drop a review telling me about it, that would be great, but in the meantime… you'll just have to make do with my own, made-up, quotes. Hopefully the experience will still be more or less the same.**

**And finally, the date given of the entry is X'd out because I find that pinning Guertena down to a certain time period tends to mess with people's head-canons, so I wanted to avoid that mess when writing this story. This way, even though I maintain the clinical tone of the section, the reader is still free to think of Guertena in whichever way they prefer.**

**Anyway, that's all for now. Onwards we go!**

**(Note: I recommend reading the ending author's notes for a better idea of what's going on—but then again, if you're the sort of person who would normally skip the ending author's notes, you're probably not reading the beginning author's notes either, so yeah. But if you _do_ see this, take heed: I would consider the ending author's notes almost as important as the story itself, so do read, please!)**

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**(insert obligatory disclaimer here)**

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Chapter Two

"_If there has been one thing that has been made exceedingly clear to me over the course of my life, it is that the world, and man with it, is a cruel, capricious, flawed thing. That is why I create art: to escape from the bounds of this imperfect world and make something better. Art is the representation of the best of humanity, without any of the flaws. But to make something _real_, one must do more. I thought the answer was to pour my own spirit into my paintings, to give them some semblance of life. And yet… even though it worked, I find myself… regretting that I have done so. To make something real is to give it the same flaws that the world possesses, so that they may be just as flawed, just as terrible. In giving my creations life… I have ruined them."_ -Weiss Guertena

Towards the end of his life, Guertena was plagued by nightmares. Letters sent by his wife indicate that she was highly concerned for her husband's mental condition, but there is no evidence that Guertena exhibited any signs of insanity towards the end of his life. Nevertheless, his diary entries at that point had been growing increasingly erratic, with the above being one of the last entries he ever made. From this entry it can be seen that, although Guertena's thoughts still appear to be rational and well-organized, he is suffering from what many perceive as delusions. This diary entry, dating from XX/XX/XXXX, is one of the only writings from Guertena in which he ever explicitly referred to his paintings given life as having "worked", and many historians hold this as evidence for the then 70-something-year-old man's mental state having deteriorated.

In truth, however, many of Guertena other writings dating from around the same time, such as letters, commentary on other artists, etc., show that the man's state of mind was still firmly rooted in sanity. For instance, in one of his reviews of a fellow artist's new sculpture dating several weeks after the above diary entry, Guertena was articulate and clear in expressing his opinion: "While the work appears… most appealing to the eye, the style of the artist appears especially shallow in this sculpture. The realism of the statue… clashes against the abstractness of its pedestal, causing a contradictory, slipshod mess of elements that cannot be easily rectified. I would suggest that the artist… focus more on the emotion of the piece than the details, for those are external and can be easily remedied should the need arise, while the feeling of the piece… is eternal."

Readers of the review at the time lauded Guertena for his apt description of the work as well as his clear outlining of the work's faults and shortcomings along with its strengths. Clearly, Guertena here is acts neither crazed nor paranoid, as in his earlier diary entry, causing some psychologists today to speculate as to whether the man suffered from mood swings or perhaps multiple personality disorder. However, as Guertena lived in a time when psychology did not yet exist as a field of science, the speculation remains little else but speculation.

However, regardless of the disagreements regarding Guertena's supposedly failing sanity towards the end of his life, most art historians agree that his work during this later period of his life-time is far inferior to some of his earlier works, possessing none of the life-like quality of his other creations. This may correspond to Guertena's expressed belief that he should cease to make his paintings "real" for fear that they would be possessed of the same flaws as "the world", perhaps causing him to put significantly less efforts into his later works than his earlier ones. And indeed, there has been far more interpretation involved with these works whenever ambiguities are introduced than previously, when viewers were almost unanimous in their opinions of what a certain brush-stroke represented. According to this theory, dubbed the "Paradigm-Shift Theory" by its proponents, this may stem from Guertena's lack of effort. But even this theory, which appears to hold up rather well under close scrutiny, fails to explain Guertena's final work, _Mary_.

As stated previously, _Mary_ is arguably the most life-like of all of Guertena's works, and yet, paradoxically, it was the very last work he painted. If Guertena truly believed that he was, to use the man's own words, "ruin[ing]" his works by putting too much "life" into them, why then, would he suddenly pour so much effort into _Mary_ that nearly anyone who views it interprets the girl as a real person?

As with many other aspects of the great artist's life, this too remains unclear. However, some light may be shed on the subject by Guertena's last and final diary entry, written mere days before his death of a sudden stroke:

"_I have done it. I have finished painting my greatest and final work. And yet, despite my vow not to do _it_, to exercise restraint, I have found that I could not hold back my passion. Mary… my child… my creation… forgive me, for I have ruined you. I have condemned you to an eternal prison from which there is no escape. Forgive me, my child."_ -Weiss Guertena

The references to the girl, Mary, as Guertena's "child" may indicate that the dying artist did intend for the portrait to be of his daughter; however, detractors of this theory argue that the man was simply referring to the painting as a whole as his "child" because it was his own creation, pointing out that the man has many times referred to other paintings as his "children" as well. The purpose of the painting, nevertheless, is still unclear. Perhaps the mysteries surrounding Guertena will never quite all be unraveled. In this case, at least, not a single historian knows for certain what Guertena was referring to when he spoke of "_it_", and many think that the truth behind the entry is perhaps unknowable.

The reader must come to their own conclusion.

* * *

"…?!"

Garry sat bolt upright, breathing heavily, his eyes wide with terror and surprise. After several seconds, his breathing finally began to slow, and he stood, gathering his bearings and looking around.

He stood in a dimly lit red hallway, at the end of which was a door. To his left was a vase, in which lay…

"Wait…" he said slowly, his mind sluggishly working through the implications of what he was now seeing. Could it be…?

_They say that your life flashes through your eyes before death…_

But then, why wasn't he experiencing his _whole_ life over again, rather than just ending up here?

Garry frowned, muttering a curse under his breath. He had been raised not to swear, but he felt that this situation rather warranted it.

How in the _hell_ had he gotten back here?

Why was his rose sitting innocently in that vase, as untouched as ever?

Where was Mary?

Where was _Ib_?

And this hallway, too… It looked familiar. Too familiar. Frowning, Garry turned ninety degrees to his left and let out a small gasp of surprise.

The Lady in Blue was sitting serenely in a frame, her eyes closed, as though nothing had ever happened—as though she had never chased Garry through this nightmarish place, finally getting ahold of his rose and plucking its petals one by one—

Garry shook himself out of his thoughts. Why was he questioning it? Here he was, having been given a second chance… and he was just going to waste it wondering what had happened? No. It didn't matter how he had gotten back; all that mattered was that he _was_ back, and that he was going to make a difference. Both he and Ib would leave this horrid place safely, and as for Mary—she would never hurt the two of them again.

Garry allowed a small smile to crawl onto his face.

Neither of them were going to die this time.

He was going to change things.

* * *

Ib walked along the empty red hallway, her rose cupped tightly in her small hands. The words from the sign near where she had first picked up the beautiful flower ran through her head once more.

"_You and the rose are ?. Know the weight of your own life."_

She hadn't a clue what that had meant, but the meaning had been made clear quickly enough: Every time the rose lost a petal, she was injured… and vice versa. Ib didn't want to think about what would happen if the rose lost all of its petals, but she could probably guess.

Because of this, Ib knew that she had to protect this rose so inexplicably linked to her life (although she probably wouldn't have expressed it in such words—she didn't even know what the word "inexplicably" meant, after all). She couldn't let it wither… she had to get out of this strange place and get back to her parents, after all.

As she thought, her feet continued forward, until Ib's mind was jolted back into the present. After taking a left turn at a strange painting titled _Breath_, she had reached the end of the red hallway and was confronted by a small desk and a door. Without hesitation, Ib reached forward and grabbed hold of the knob, turning it.

The door swung open into another room full of artwork. A blue statue that was titled _Uh_, and a red one on the other side of the room titled _Ah_. Ib wondered briefly why Guertena would call two of his sculptures _Ah_ and _Uh_ respectively, but only briefly. She had bigger things to worry about, after all.

Walking up to a door in the center of the room, she jiggled its knob. Naturally, it didn't open—but Ib wasn't expecting it to, in any case. After the first few puzzles in this place, Ib knew that she was going to need to pay close attention to detail if she was going to escape. Keeping that fact in her mind, the nine-year-old girl examined every painting in the room closely, starting from left to right.

_Heartbeat_ was a strange painting. At first, it appeared to be nothing but a green line posed horizontally against a black background, but every time Ib touched it, the line would shiver as it morphed into what resembled the tip of a mountain which would move across the painting from left to right, accompanied by a thumping noise.

The rest of the paintings seemed completely normal. Ib thought _The Lady in Red_ was particularly eye-catching, but nothing really stood out about it. It was only as she was turning away that there was a cracking noise from behind her…

* * *

Meanwhile, Garry had removed his rose from the vase, marveling at how _healthy_ it looked. The last he had seen of it, the impossibly-colored flower had been in poor condition indeed, a condition that had only been aggravated by Mary later on. But now… the rose was the very picture of health, ten petals blossoming from it fully.

Of course, Garry had no intention of being ambushed by the Lady in Blue again, so as soon as his fingers curled around the miraculous flower's stem, he whipped around, so as not to be taken off guard as he was the first time. Even if him getting hurt was the way Ib had found him the first time, Garry wasn't about to let that happen again. Humiliating, that was. And then there was his reaction to the spitting portrait… He had outright _shrieked_! Shrieked! In front of Ib! A nine-year-old girl who had seemed less surprised by the face's action than he, a seventeen-year-old adult, had been!

No, Garry wasn't going to let _that_ happen again. He whipped around, his right hand in his pocket, red to whip out his trusty lighter if that damned painting showed its—admittedly rather pretty-looking—mug.

But strangely, the Lady in Blue was nowhere to be seen.

Garry frowned contemplatively. Last time, she had almost literally been on top of him the second he had retrieved his rose… So where was that psychotic woman now? Things were going differently already, it seemed…

And then, a nagging thought Garry had been repressing for some time finally surfaced: Sure, he had intended to change things, but could whatever he had done just now been so different from what he originally did that changes were occurring already? Surely whatever he'd done differently couldn't have been enough to scare away the Lady in Blue, just like that, could it?

That… didn't seem very likely.

So what other options were there?

Garry's only visible eyebrow furrowed in concentration, its counterpart—though covered by hair—doing the same. His frown deepened. Either he had already done something significant enough to alter the Lady in Blue's behavior… or this wasn't the past after all. It might have been an extremely good reconstruction of the beginning of his original journey… but if his second hypothesis was correct, then it wasn't perfect… and it _definitely_ wasn't the past.

Then Garry realized he'd been speculating again, and that there was no use doing that unless there was something he could do to change his current situation—and short of moving forwards and (maybe) meeting Ib and Mary in the process, there was nothing he could do, past or not, reconstruction or not. He mentally chided himself for falling back into his old habit of overthinking things again. It didn't matter whether or not this was the past because there was nothing he could do about it—and Garry wasn't one to worry about things he couldn't change.

Instead, he preferred to think about—and move towards—the future, which, unlike the past, was something he _could_ influence. Past or not, Garry decided, that didn't change the fact that he had to do _something_.

And that something most certainly did _not_ involve standing around thinking about random things looking stupid.

With this new mindset, Garry moved forwards purposefully, going back to check on the Lady in Blue's original portrait location. As he approached, he let out a soft breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

The portrait was still there.

But why hadn't it moved?

Garry quickly told himself to snap out of it again. It didn't matter _why_ it hadn't moved, only that it hadn't. And since that was a very _good_ thing for him, he wasn't going to question it. As the old saying went, why look a gift horse in the mouth, after all? Whatever the reason for the Lady in Blue's lack of aggressiveness towards him, Garry decided, he would just accept his good fortune and move on.

And on that note… he really needed to stop doing that altogether—and by "that" he meant getting lost in his thoughts. He was going to get out with Ib, after all—and standing around wasn't going to help anything.

Goodness, this was sounding awfully like that mental pep-talk he had given himself earlier. Almost identical, actually.

And by "earlier", Garry meant around a minute ago.

He really needed to stop doing that.

And there it was again! His mind kept going off on tangents…

_Focus!_ he told himself. _Focus!_

He should probably get moving right about now…

And stop _thinking_…

_And by stop thinking, I _mean_ stop thinking!_

With a cry of pain, Garry fell to his knees, clutching his head, which was suddenly giving off a thousand shrieking mental complaints. He couldn't think straight! One thing was certain: His head had _definitely_ not been like this the first time around!

_You know… you should probably get moving, yeah? Getting caught up in your own thoughts is nice and all, is now really the time?_

Garry's breaths were now coming out in ragged gasps. These… weren't his thoughts!

_Come on; what's the problem? Are you just going to sit there like a sitting duck? Hurry up and move it, buddy!_

What… was going on?!

* * *

Ib couldn't help but let out a small gasp of surprise at the sight before her… which was a _much_ better reaction than most nine-year-old's would have exhibited at such a bizarre and frightful sight.

_The Lady in Red_ had seemingly fallen from the place where it had been hung just a moment earlier, but that wasn't what made the scene scary: The fallen Lady's upper body was leaning out of the painting, her arms stretching towards Ib. The thing looked like some sort of strange cross between a human and a snail that happened to have a canvas instead of a shell. And the Lady's eyes… were fixed straight on the young, red-eyed girl in front of her.

Ib watched, transfixed by this profoundly weird sight. The Lady's face, originally pretty, was now distorted by a horrifically hungry-looking expression, and her posture was just so strange… And besides, even ignoring the weirdness of the whole thing, how often was it that you got to watch a painting come alive and try to crawl out of its frame, anyways? It was a truly novel experience, and one that Ib found herself fascinated by, in a sort of perverse way.

It didn't last. The Lady's arms, having been stretched out limply in front of the painting just a second ago, suddenly flopped to life, fingers and nails digging into the red carpet and pulling the entire entity—frame and all—_towards_ Ib, jolting the young girl out of reverie rather handily. Nothing wakes a person up quite like a hostile presence, after all.

With a yelp, Ib turned tail and sprinted away from the painting, her rose tightly clenched in her hand. Behind her, the Lady in Red was crawling after her at a speed incongruous with someone moving entirely using their arms. A brief sense of the old wonderment flickered through Ib's mind once more: How could someone move that quickly? She would have been somewhat impressed by the painting's feat if said painting in question wasn't currently trying to kill her.

As Ib reached a corner directly ahead of her, she swerved to the right and ducked behind the wall, hiding her from view. As her ears strained to listen for any sign of movement, the girl was surprised to hear that familiar crawling noise, not approaching, but rather _receding_ from her current position. Why would the Lady in Red move _away_ from her prey?

Clearly, Ib surmised, as terrifying as the painting was, one thing was obvious: It wasn't that smart.

Which in turn meant that _she_ could outsmart _it_.

Which meant that she could potentially trap it.

Which meant that she could then continue to try and solve the puzzle of the locked door without further interference from the painting.

That… would probably be a good idea, then.

All she needed was a plan.

The nine-year-old girl's eyes, so confused and frightened just a few minutes ago when she was looking at the painting, now hardened with a resolve that didn't—_shouldn't—_exist in children that young. After one last breath, Ib steeled herself… and risked peeking out from behind her corner.

Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes registered what, exactly, was there.

The Lady in Red was no longer present in that particular hallway; Ib could only assume that meant she had wandered off somewhere else.

But something _else_ was.

Right at the end of the hallway… lay something that glinted red in the dim light of the room. A key.

And Ib was quite sure that she knew which door that key led to.

The situation had changed, now. No longer did she need to outwit the painting on its own turf. Instead, all she had to do… was grab that key somehow.

But how?

A mad dash would work, she supposed—if the Lady in Red wasn't nearby, that was, or if the painting was even dumber than Ib had initially given it credit for. Neither of those were chances she wanted to bank on right about now… so the mad dash idea was out.

Some way to intentionally attract the attention of the Lady, perhaps? Ib could lead the painting in one gigantic loop around the room, grabbing the key in the process, and sprint to the door while the Lady was behind, in hot pursuit… but that idea bothered Ib as well.

First, there was the fact that the hallway in which the key lay was a dead end… meaning that even if Ib successfully evaded the Lady the whole time and led the painting in a correctly shaped loop—both of which were by no means certain—she would still have to enter the hallway, grab the key, and slip out the same way she came—all with the Lady right behind her.

Second, Ib wasn't sure if she could keep up the pace all the way throughout the chase—the Lady had moved preternaturally fast last time, and Ib was sure that if the painting had actually bothered investigating the junction she had disappeared into, she would not have gotten away a second time. Ib was above average for a nine-year-old, true, but that statement only applied to her intelligence. Physically speaking, the brown-haired girl was no runner. Even if adrenaline could sustain her—and Ib wasn't even aware of what adrenaline was, so she couldn't have considered this—she was still only human, and thus would tire accordingly. The Lady, on the other hand, was a painting—and who was to say what the painting could really do?

Finally, Ib remembered how terrifying it was being chased by the Lady the first time around. It was not a pleasant experience, to be sure—and Ib had no wish to be chased again. This may have been a weaker reason than the other two, but it was a valid one nonetheless; although Ib's clear manner and quick thinking often made her seem older than she really was, she was still only nine—and nine-year-old's did not, as a rule, feel no fear when being chased by something scary—just ask any nine-year-old who just had a nightmare. Ib really, really, _really_ didn't want to go through that again. Really.

So that idea was out, too. Ib felt like hitting something in her frustration, but again, the rational part of her mind prevailed. What would punching something accomplish? Her parents had always advocated against releasing anger through violence, and besides, hitting something would only result in a sound being emitted—which would then attract the Lady in Red, and Ib was quite certain that the Lady would not kindly submit to being punched the way a wall would. And besides, hitting something was really more the sort of thing boys did when they were annoyed, after all, and despite her young age, Ib had always prided herself on being more mature than even most girls her own age, much less boys. As these thoughts ran through the crimson-eyed girl's head, her clenched fists slowly relaxed. Getting angry wouldn't help anything, and it definitely wouldn't get her out of this place.

So what else was an option? She didn't want to risk making a run for it, and she knew that playing bait was not a good idea—so what else?

Both of the earlier options she had considered were bad, right? So what made them bad? And as Ib pondered this, an answer readily surfaced: Both options were poor choices because both would probably attract the Lady's attention—in fact, for the latter choice (leading the Lady on a wild-goose-chase), it was a sure thing. As she thought about this, Ib realized that attracting the Lady's attention was counterproductive; in other words, it wasn't something that would help her towards her goal—so she then automatically discarded any ideas that involved getting noticed by the Lady in Red.

And really, what was left was quite simple; in fact, it was such a simple plan that Ib was surprised she hadn't thought of it earlier. Really, the girl reflected, sometimes thinking too much about things _wasn't_ the way to go. The answer was obvious in retrospect:

Sneak past.

Of course, that was easier said than done.

But then again, it also had a much better chance of succeeding that any of Ib's other plans.

Ib let out a deep breath, although she was careful not to exhale too loudly. Well, no one ever said this was going to be easy.

No one ever even told her all this was going to _happen_, for that matter. And if she wanted to get out…

She would have to do some hard things.

* * *

"What… the… hell!" Garry grunted, his eyes screwed up tightly in concentration. He needed to stop thinking!

Heh… that was kind of new, wasn't it? He'd never thought that he'd ever be telling himself to _stop_ thinking…

_No! Shut up! That's totally irrelevant! I need to get back to the matter at hand!_

_You know what, I agree. So you should really stop arguing with yourself… shouldn't you?_

_Why am I arguing?_

_I don't know; don't ask me. You're just being stupid, as usual._

_But… why can't I focus?!_

_What are you talking about? Of course you can focus; you're just not trying hard enough, you know. Instead, you choose to waste your time on pointless debates with none other than _yourself_, of all people…_

_That's…_

_Impossible? Hardly. You just need to stop imagining that _I_ exist separately from _you_, and then we can be on our merry way._

_You know, you're not making it any easier to imagine you as part of me when you just referred to us as "we" as opposed to "me"._

_And there you go again! Talking to me as though I were a real person… but I'm not, see? That's the problem—you're imagining as some separate being inhabiting your body, but really, I'm just you. And this entire argument is just your mind talking back and forth, back and forth, with _itself_._

_But that can't be! If this is all conjured up by my mind, then why can't I stop thinking about it? And if you're me… then how come you seem to know more about this situation than I do?!_

…_Gosh, sometimes I have trouble believing that I'm you, too. I mean, how could _I_ be so dumb? Then again, I suppose I _do_ have the benefit of knowing the answer beforehand_…

Garry grabbed a fistful of his lavender-colored hair and nearly pulled it out in an attempt to shut that thing up. It was a part of him, it claimed… so if that was true, then he should be able to pull himself away from all of this if he inflicted enough pain on himself, right?

Naturally, it didn't work.

_That's not going to work,_ the voice observed dryly. _Listen, I want to get out of this as much as you do, but—_

_You've got a funny way of showing it,_ snapped Garry mentally, still trying to physically shock himself out of… whatever this was.

—_but,_ the voice continued, seemingly unperturbed by Garry's interruption, _you can't take any shortcuts, 'kay? The only way out of this is if you actually convince yourself I don't exist for real. And just so you know, you're only making it worse right now. Just look: Earlier you didn't think of us any differently, really; you just kind of thought up this conversation by yourself. Sure, you thought I was something different from yourself, but you still kept the entire conversation together in one part of your mind. But now—now you've start referring to only _yourself_ as "Garry", and to me as "the voice"—and that's not good. You've started thinking of us as two separate entities, and if this continues, we really will become two—in other words, you'll rip your own mind apart, quite literally._

Garry let out a soft groan as his headache seemed to increase in intensity. Suddenly, his entire head was filled with white-hot pain, and he couldn't stop himself from releasing a scream.

_Ooh,_ muttered the voice. _That was a bad one. Even I almost felt that one, and that's not even technically _possible_, you know._

_What… are you?_ ground out Garry.

The voice sighed. _All right, I get it—you want—no, you _need_ an explanation if we're going to do this. Okay, here's the thing: You get that this is the past, right?_

_Keep… going, _muttered Garry.

_Well, how do you think we ended up here?_ The voice was met with mental silence as Garry let out another scream of pain. _Right, sorry. I get it; you're kind of busy on your end. You'd better be listening, though… I think we're running out of time. Okay, anyways—we're here because we _died_. But not just any death, oh no—us died in the _gallery_. And the thing about the gallery is that it's infused with life force. You get it? Life force—as in the stuff that makes up Mary, all the other paintings and dolls and sculptures, and to a lesser extent, even these walls around us_…

As the words sunk in, Garry felt some strange sensation, almost as if his being were resonating with… the truth. His headache abruptly lessened, and he nearly staggered back, cowed by the huge sensation of relief. Able to think more clearly now, he raised a hand to wipe some sweat from his forehead. _Go on._

_Life force, also known as the soul or the spirit, is what composes all beings, whether real or fabricated, including us. Don't you remember that diary entry from Guertena? This world was created when Guertena suffused his paintings with his own spirit, which is what causes the paintings to come alive. But the thing about life force… is that it's malleable; it can be crafted, shaped, molded, and even _swapped_. Remember that last one… life force can be swapped. I'm guessing that Mary probably wanted to swap with us, in order to get to the real world, because without switching her spirit with someone else's, she couldn't manifest. And now we get to the crux of the situation… we died here. But did you ever notice how our watch stopped as soon as you entered this gallery? And how any clocks here don't move?_

Garry paused. It was true; his watch had worked just before entering the gallery. He held it up before him now; it read the exact same time as it had when he first entered: 12:43.

_Did you honestly think it was a coincidence that our watch stopped the second we entered the gallery? No, it's because in this realm, made up entirely of Guertena's spirit, time holds no meaning. Life forces can be freely exchanged, even across different planes of existence, so is it that big of a stretch to say that they can also be exchanged across time as well?_

…

_You get it now, don't you? We came back here… but in doing so, an extra _you_ was added to the old you—the one who had just arrived here. I represent the new you… and _you_, Garry, represent the old you. It appears as though you've attained my memories, already, but… I haven't fully integrated with you yet, it seems. And since you're still the original owner of this mind, you'll need to integrate me, not the other way around. And if you don't… our existences will clash within the confines of your body, and eventually we'll both fade away…_

Garry experienced an enormous feeling of lightheadedness as his headache decreased to almost nothing, but he wasn't ready to let go yet.

_Wait. You said that you're the new me. But I have all of your memories up until death… and yet I don't remember finding out about any of this… If you really are the future me, then how do you know all of this extra information?_

_Observant, aren't you? Most people would just roll with it, you know… but I guess you're not most people, huh? Well… fine. I know these things because in my journey here, some of the gallery's spirit took up residence in mine. That's how I know… because I now possess some of Guertena's knowledge._

Garry frowned. There was something deeply… unsettling… about the claim that his supposed "other self" had just made, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out what. All the logic seemed to make sense… so then why did something still feel wrong?

His headache's intensity suddenly spiked again, and the lavenderette clutched his head in pain once more. Something was definitely wrong… but…

As Garry tried to discern what exactly it was that felt off, his headache increased to an even greater extent, on par with what he was experiencing before his "other self" had told him all those things… And then the pain rocketed up even more, until Garry wasn't just seeing spots—he was seeing a white-hot blur.

Thinking was impossible. Speech, equally so, if not more. And as for communication with his "other self"… that would have been wishful thinking if not for the fact that Garry couldn't even think in the first place, much less be "wishful" about it.

And whatever that feeling of "wrong-ness" was, the headache—if it could even be _called_ that—had wiped it out entirely. That strange feeling disappeared entirely as Garry's mind was overwhelmed, and as it vanished, so did everything else along with it, including consciousness itself.

For the second time, Garry found himself slipping into darkness.

* * *

**Well, no Ib-Garry meet-up this time, but I did end up fulfilling my promise of a longer chapter, didn't I? That feels really satisfying, actually—typing up that much in a single chapter. Much more satisfying than the puny 2,000-something words that was the last chapter, anyways.**

**One thing that may or may not be bothering you however, but that I feel the need to clarify regardless: An info-dump on Chapter Two seems a bit premature, doesn't it? What, are we going to explain everything to Garry right after he "lands", so to speak, so that he knows exactly what's going on? That seems rather cheap, doesn't it? It takes all the challenge, and thus conflict, and thus interest, right out of the story, plus it even goes against what I said in the intro to the last chapter:**

"…**that doesn't change my belief that, if done right, a time-travel variant of Ib's story has very high potential—especially if (despite all efforts to the contrary) things don't end up any better, or even actually somehow end up _worse_ than before. After all, time isn't something to be taken lightly."**

**If we're going to give Garry all the facts, that goes directly against what I said, doesn't it? Not to mention that giving _Garry_ all the facts also means giving you, the _reader_, all the facts, which is a great way to end a story, but a not-so-great way to start one (though it _is_ a great way to get rid of all the intrigue in the story).**

**Don't worry. I'm not such a horrible story-teller that I'd pull something as plot-destroying as _that_. Now, obviously I don't want to say any more 'cause of spoilers and all of that jazz. But let me just end with this: The info-dump is not what it seems…**

**Anyways, that's all, so I'll see you in the next chapter, then!**

**JohnWarnerSmith (still not my real name!)**


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